


On Melancholy Hill

by galactiicace



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And basically i'm a slut for the significance of dog tags and what giving them to someone means, Character Death, Dog Tags, M/M, Mc76 - Freeform, Post-Recall, Pre-Recall, Tragic Romance, in which i write the unofficial prequel to Watercolour Whiskey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 19:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10445289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactiicace/pseuds/galactiicace
Summary: Death has a funny way of making people sentimental, and Jack's already a sentimental man as it is. But it's more than just a death scare that prompts him, it's love, and it's the fear that sooner rather than later, something is going to tear them apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peacekeeper_Revolvcr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peacekeeper_Revolvcr/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Watercolour Whiskey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210400) by [Peacekeeper_Revolvcr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peacekeeper_Revolvcr/pseuds/Peacekeeper_Revolvcr). 



> I can't believe i'm back at it again with more mc76 trash, this time the multi-chapter edition. I've only just finished the first chapter and already this has taken so many different turns in terms of what direction i want to go with this fic but the central theme is clear (or at least will be later on). But also once again you've got peacekeeper_revolvcr to thank for this. This is also lowkey an unofficial prequel to their current work in progress, Watercolour Whiskey, which I highly recommend reading cause holy shit it's amazing.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr! galactiicace.tumblr.com

**[ JOHNATHON J. MORRISON]**  
[ S.E.P UNIT 8 ]  
[ 255 - 76 - 9410 ]  
[ A POSITIVE ]  
[ CHRISTIAN ] 

Metal clips against heaving chest, an anxious twitch of his finger along the trigger of the custom rifle as he counts his bullets, counts their steps, counts his breaths. 25 (plus one clip, 3 spare rockets, and a pistol at his hip), 72 (36 omnics, most with one-shot bullets), and in-out 14 times before his eyes squeeze shut, just for a moment. Cornflower blues glance between his left and right, watching nervous soldiers watch him, waiting for his signal, and Jack’s exhales sharp. If they’re going to move, it has to be now.

A nod to the squad on the left, a count to 3, and he hears the bullets erupt. A scream, and he counts one of his men dead already, but he hears an omnic go down, and the anxiety dissipates. To his right, three more wait on bated breath for the commander’s signal, two bombs between them as they wait for the horde to congregate to the four at his left; decoys who knew their purpose, they were rejects even from blackwatch, a few ne’er-do-wells who wouldn’t be missed if their lives were sacrificed here.

It doesn’t settle the bile in Jack’s throat as he watches another go down.

From his cover, he takes a chance to look over his shoulder to count, to gauge. Two omnics down to the two men Jack’s lost, but as he had predicted, the horde moves in junction towards their decoy unit, completely unaware of Jack and the squad to the right. Another omnic down, and Jack exhales slowly before he ducks back beneath his cover and turns to the awaiting group. They’ve got one window of opportunity – he’s counted the bullets for each and every soldier, he’s heard each fire of the gun, and the remaining three decoys are running low. If they’re going to act, it has to be now.

25, 33, 5, and he nods. The air between them shifts, and the waiting squad shifts uncomfortably. A moment of hesitation, and he hears the click of the pin amongst the gunfire, and he lets out a low but loud whistle, the only signal before a hail of charring omnic parts and embers shoot through the air, the detonation enough to leave Jack momentarily short of breath. A glance over his shoulder, and he curses. He never gave enough credit to the way these things had been built, and panic settles as he counts 25 bodies still left standing, and 28 still shooting. He takes the chance, and shifts to his knees, barrel of the rifle rested on the cinderblock as he channels his inner Amari, and attempts – with minor success – to snipe his way through a few. 

It’s a mistake, and the sounds of his rifle only serve to catch the attention of the omnics – and their guns. Two bullets whip past uncomfortably close, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. But even with trembling hands, he’s far from a bad shot, and he manages to take three down with five bullets. 22 left, and Jack feels the first bullet dig deep into muscle and bone. It’s enough to pull a sharp curse from his lips as he dips back into cover, gloved palm pressed to his shoulder as he takes a few deep breaths. He’s only got one biotic capsule left – a foolish misread, an idiotic belief that this would have been a swift mission. It hurts, but a bullet in the shoulder isn’t enough to waste it. To his left, the bullets start again, the decoys taking over where Jack’s injury left off, and with two left, he feels the anxiety seep into his bones; one grenade, 3 rockets, and not enough bullets. From the corner of his eye, he sees the panic strike a young soldier’s face, trembling hands and tears on his cheeks, he’s not ready to die, and the commander swallows back the guilt.

“O’Keeffe!” Jack’s voice is sharp above the gunfire, but he sees no reaction, nothing to give away that the kid heard him, that the comm in his ear was even still on. Jack curses, slams his head back into the cinderblock, and tries desperately to think of something, anything, to get them out of this. His shoulder is going numb, the decoy squad is running out of bullets, and – with a glance over his shoulder – there’s still 19 omnics left.

And they’ve only got two options.

The first is to stick to the plan, waste their bullets, pray they’ve taken out enough omnics, and throw the last grenade. After that, there’s nothing they can do but attempt to retreat, and pray they’re not gunned down in the process. 

That, or he takes one for the team.

Being said he stays standing long enough, he could get the grenade into the epicenter of the horde and take them all out, give his soldiers a chance to finish the last of them off, or to run. Regardless of their choice, it gives them a chance. He swallows thick, turning his gaze to his right as he watches worried faces watch him, their hopes and lives resting squarely on Jack’s currently bleeding shoulder. It’s a place he never thought he’d be, in command of not just a battalion, but an entire organization of peace, with everyone’s eyes on him, looking to him for the lead, looking to him for guidance and strength. He’d never tell another soul, but it terrifies him. But this isn’t the time nor the place, and his eyes meet that of the last grenade holder.

“Daniels,” his voice cuts through the static as the young cadet shifts his full attention to his commanding officer, fingers trembling as they hold fast to the last grenade. Jack attempts to convey that everything would be alright, but he doesn’t know how well it works. A hand stretches out palm up, and the younger understands, at the least, he’s being beckoned for the bomb. “We’ve only got one chance; give me the grenade, and I’ll finish this.” It clicks in the minds of everyone watching him, both to his left and right, what it is he plans to do, and through the gunfire comes a myriad of voices attempting to talk sense into him. But Daniels is silent, watching the man he’d looked up to since childhood with confusion in his eyes. He understands the plan, but not the sacrifice. 

Jack’s mouth opens, ready to repeat the order, but the young soldier cuts him off before he has the chance. “Don’t let them make a martyr out of me.” He says simply, and Jack feels a horrific pain in his chest at the cocky smile he’s given. “Thanks for everything, Commander.” 

Before he’s got a chance to respond, Daniels is on his feet, ducking through the storm of gunfire, and Jack vaguely catches the motion of the pin being pulled from the grenade, and the comm piece pulled from his ear. 

“Daniels!” Voice raw, concern for himself is lost as he scrambles to his feet, the bullet in his shoulder forgotten. “Daniels, get your ass back here **now**!” Even with his back to the commander, he sees _him_ , and perhaps that’s why Jack races in after him, not an ounce of care given for his own well-being as he reaches out, desperately, to catch any piece of the kid.

The blood hits him first, and he watches with horror as Daniels is stricken, bullet by bullet, pushing through the scraps of metal to the center, a man on a mission, and he can see the way the kid staggers, the way he loses his footing, his momentum, but still he pushes on, a stubborn bastard like the rest of them. It isn’t until he’s brought to a knee that the pain begins to register in Jack, far more than a shoulder taking the brunt of the collective omnic anger, and he’s dizzy as he watches them whir in panic at Jack and his soldier’s presence. He coughs up blood, and Daniels turns to him then, a melancholic smile on his face as he gives his commander a final salute, his final farewell.

“Eddie!” The bullet hits the commander square in the chest, and the world spins out from under him; the last thing he sees is the white of the explosion before he’s blown backwards. The last thought he has is of Eddie Daniels, the 20 year old from Long Island, and of the one left back in Zurich, before his thoughts cease, and he’s left floating.


End file.
